


Psychological Warfare

by misura



Category: Deadpool (2016)
Genre: Crack, Deadpool being Deadpool, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 16:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12391986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: Deadpool figures out the perfect way to make Francis suffer. Weasel is less than enthusiastic.





	Psychological Warfare

"I don't get it," Weasel said.

"That's why you're the comical side-kick, Weas. Because you don't get it. Me, the protagonist, I get it."

"Because you're the, excuse me, protagonist?"

"No. Because I'm a kickass genius. And smarter than you."

"Whatever, man."

 

The plan was simple in its brilliance. Brilliant in its simplicity.

Wade had come up with it over the course of two weeks, which he had spent stabbing, slashing and shish-kebabbing his way through Francis's organization like a hot knife going through soft (but extremely bloody) butter. Real butter, mind. Not margarine.

"You think maybe people would be more willing to tell you stuff if you didn't kill them _before_ asking them questions?"

"The trick is not killing them all the way, Weas. Just, you know, two thirds."

Weasel nodded slowly. "You're sure it's not four fifths? I mean, if you're talking percentages, that's a nice, round number. Two thirds, that's kind of tricky, right? Sixty-six and then a lot of sixes after the decimal point, just going on and on and on."

"Kind of like Francis, when I finally get my hands on him? With the screaming, I mean."

"Uh," Weasel said. "Sure. I guess."

"Did you know that normal people can only scream for about an hour before their vocal chords cut out? I mean, at some point, those fuckers just go adios. It's been fun. No more screams for you today."

"What about, like, opera singers?"

"Why would I want to torture an opera singer for information about Francis?" Wade asked. "I mean, sure, he's British, but, you know, sexy accent British. Not 'walking around in a suit and being all cultured' British."

"Right," said Weasel. "And he's immune to pain, right?"

"Two rights don't make a wrong, Weas."

Weasel paused. He'd been doing some bartender thing when Wade had walked in, ostensibly to get a drink, but mostly to show off how his new uniform was really good at not showing the bloodstains. "Okay. So what, exactly, are you going to do this guy to, you know. Hurt him?"

"Well, I did consider acting like I was wildly in love with him and then leaving him crying at the altar, but I figured that maybe that would make things needlessly complicated."

Weasel straightened a bottle. "Good call."

"I mean, I'd tap that, but, you know. Total side-plot. Save it for the gag reel - and I mean the fun, sexy kind of gag, not the kind where people are just kind of throwing up except not really."

"Sort of sounds like a crush," Weasel said. "You know, the creepy, obsessive-bordering-on-stalker-ish kind."

"Is there any other?" Wade shrugged. "Anyways, there I was, innocently putting together some furniture for my roommate, and all of a sudden, wham!"

"Pretty sure they split up ages ago. Actually, didn't one of them die recently? I think I read something like that somewhere."

"True artists never die, Weas. They will live forever in my heart." Wade frowned. "Are you sure you don't want to go for some sort of pun with your last name? I mean, putting together furniture - it doesn't get much easier than that."

"Not sure if I've even got one here. Movies, eh? What can you do?"

"Earn the R-rating by putting in some hard-core torture and-slash-or sex scenes?"

"Both at the same time? Well, I mean, if it's with you, I guess that might work. No offense."

"Thanks for the confidence boost there, Weas. I mean, I was totally working up my courage to go and talk to Vanessa again some day, but, you know, you're just my best friend. Why would I come talk to you and expect any sort of support?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm your _only_ friend. And we're not that close. Not like I'd take a bullet for you or something. Well, unless it was, like, literally picking up a bullet and giving it to you or something."

"Shop lifting at the gun store? Those were the days, eh? I'm more of a hack 'n' slash guy now."

"And you're planning on torturing to death a guy who doesn't feel any pain."

"Not - "

Weasel rolled his eyes. "Fine. You plan on torturing him only four fifths to death. The question is: how?"

"Actually, I'm probably going to go for five sixths. You know, because that sounds more fun. And then I'm probably going to take some pictures. And liberties. Many, many liberties."

"Would you like another blow job?"

"No thanks, I'm saving myself for someone special."

"I meant the drink."

"I know what you meant. Did you know what _I_ meant?"

"Honestly, I wish I didn't, but yes, I do. So how does this plan of yours work, exactly? Because, I mean, we're, what, couple hundred words in and still kind of dicking around here."

"I'm pretty sure the plan's, like, the punch line."

"You sure you don't want a drink?"

"Oh what the hell. Irish whiskey?"

"You know British isn't the same as Irish, right?"

 

Francis stared. "What the hell."

"There's a note," Angel said. "With a drawing."

" 'Build it, and I will come.' Signed Wade Wilson." Francis eyed the crate. "Build what?"

"There's P.S. on the back."

" 'Hard'."

 

"You're sick, you know," Weasel said. "I mean, in your head."

"I wonder when he figures out I gave him the wrong number of screws. _And_ the building instructions for the Hjürgdal instead of the Björnbjörn."

"How'd you know you gave him the wrong number? I mean, it's Ikea. Maybe you accidentally gave him the exact right amount. This is Ikea we're talking about, after all."

"Don't spoil this for me, Weas. I'm having fun over here."

"Yeah, I can see that. Would you like me to leave you alone?"

"Ooh, yes, please. Just - can you put on some music before you go? And hand me that unicorn plushie over there?"

"Seriously, dude. Really, really sick."


End file.
